


Memento

by Greyias



Series: KotFE Five Year Timeskip [3]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: (part two), Agent Angstypants Strikes Again, F/M, Heavy Angst, KotFE timeskip, Non-Graphic Violence, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Past Relationship(s), Presumed Dead, Theron Shan has a Death Wish, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 05:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20652317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greyias/pseuds/Greyias
Summary: One of the first things Marcus had taught Theron was to always control your image. The best spies were only seen or left a trace when they wanted to be found. Have nothing and leave nothing that someone could use against you later.





	Memento

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the KotFE timeskip — before Theron and Lana meet back up and hatch their carbonite jail break plan. This is one of the incidents lightly alluded to in [_Unsent Correspondence_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724378). I should probably include a slight warning for some violence.
> 
> Written for the prompt: liberosis - the desire to care less about things

They’d never taken a picture together. 

It was one of those things that he’d never really thought important. He had never been big on momentos, and generally made a rule of not having his picture taken or spread around. One of the first things Marcus had taught Theron was to always control your image. The best spies were only seen or left a trace when they _wanted_ to be found. Have nothing and leave nothing that someone could use against you later.

And _besides_, the celebrated Battlemaster of the Jedi Order was almost a permanent fixture in the Republic at this point. She was always saving the day, showing up in holo-newsreels, status reports, and creeping into his every day life without him even realizing it. So it hadn’t been like he’d _never_ see her again.

Or so he’d thought.

So after Zakuul had… after they’d… after she was…

He’d pulled a picture from her dossier — the one closest to the image he still held in his head. Most of them were standard personnel shots, a serene Jedi. None of them had her laugh or smile, couldn’t even make out her freckles in most. But he’d found one that was passable, and saved it to a little holoprojector that he kept in the inner pocket of his jacket. Right where he could keep it close and safe. Like he hadn’t been able to do for her.

On bad nights he’d take it from it’s careful resting place and set it next to his pillow, flicking it on so he’d fall asleep to the twinkling blue light and her image. Sometimes it kept the dreams away. Sometimes it made them worse. But when he’d wake up, it was almost like she had been watching over him while he slept. And it would take a few, blissful peaceful moments before reality would set back in. Then he would flick it back off, get dressed, and put it back in its safe place.

After he left the SIS, and the further he drifted from the Core Worlds, the less he’d bring it out. Unless he had a safe place to sleep for the night, and usually he didn’t — one lone rogue agent against the might of the entire Zakuulan empire couldn’t let his guard slip.

But Theron Shan was human — almost painfully so at times. And one night he’d picked the wrong alleyway in the Old World to turn into, and had turned back to face a group of thugs. _They_ called themselves the Heralds of Zildrog, but Theron had seen their type before in every dirty corner of the galaxy. Just another doomsday cult that liked to prey on the weak and helpless. Unfortunately for _them_, Theron was neither.

He’d let them think that though, pretending to be some poor lost schmuck who hadn’t realized how far off the beaten path he’d wandered.

When he was with the SIS, he’d rely on everything in a fight — his blasters, gadgets, implants, bracers, _and_ his fists. These days he preferred to rely on his brawling skills. He pretended that it was because the supply of darts on his bracers were expensive to replace — one-shot tricks that they were. A man surviving on his life savings had to pick and choose where he spent his money. But the real truth of it was that he just liked the solid feel of his fists connecting with something — the jolt it sent up his arm and the way it set his blood on fire and for a moment drowned out all other emotions.

Theron let the Heralds stalk further into the alley until the first one got close enough, and he launched into action, driving the butt of his palm into the center of the first man’s face. Blood sprayed across the alley as the cultist clutched his broken nose — but Theron was still moving. Sweeping the next one off their feet and driving his boot into the downed man’s exposed stomach as he launched the first thug into the oncoming charge of the third one barreling into the crowded alley. He followed the momentum of the move, vaulting up and rolling over the back of his would-be attacker towards the open mouth of the alleyway — and into the path of his final attacker.

His final charge came to a halt as he felt his body jerked upwards, as if suspended by an unseen force that was slowly closing around his windpipe. The man was one of the Herald’s Force users, face hidden by an almost serpentine mask. Theron sucked in air through his restricted airway, struggling and failing to break the man’s invisible hold around his neck. 

The Herald approached, malice echoing in every footstep as he continued to hold the spy tight in his grip. Darkness started to encroach in Theron’s vision, the words of the cultist and his cohorts an indistinct mumble, as if he were caught underwater. Drowning. The others had recovered, and distantly Theron felt someone rooting around in his pockets. Perhaps trying to see if he had anything of value on him — but all they found was the unassuming little holoprojector. 

A soft blue filled the dim alley with light, and for a moment Theron’s desaturated image of the world beyond was filled with the color of her flickering face. There was just the tiniest hints of a smile quirking at her lips, but the image wavered as the broken-nosed thug tossed it around in the air. Theron managed to croak out a hoarse “no”, tried to surge forward through the invisible Force holding him in place to snatch her picture back, but just dangled in the air ineffectively.

At the pained noise, Broken Nose looked back at the hapless spy, a sneer spreading across his bloodied visage as he held the picture out. Theron wanted to grab at it, but was still frozen in place, so could only watch helplessly as it tumbled to the ground, the blue light dancing wildly with the motion. Miraculously it landed upright, her still image facing him — until a heavy boot came down on top of it. The light flickered one last time before winking out as the device splintered into a dozen pieces.

The darkness and gray tinting Theron’s vision were overtaken by a red haze descending over him.

“Toxicity _seven_,” he managed to snarl past the pressure on his throat, dropping his wrist long enough to aim straight at the exposed throat of the Force user slowly choking the life out of him. The electrodart shot out with a quiet _snik_ and sunk into its unsuspecting mark. 

The pressure on his throat eased, gravity taking over as the ground rushed up to meet him and air whooshed back into his lungs. Broken Nose’s mouth had flopped open in astonishment, but one of his friends was quicker on the uptake and bolted forward. Theron ignored the stars dancing at the edges of his vision and instead adjusted the stoop of his shoulders and shifted slightly, using the angry cultist’s momentum to slam the other man into the wall. The rest of the attackers regained their wits and rushed in, only to be met with a whirlwind of fury and rage.

The sound of violence echoing out of the alley nearly drowned out the Heralds’ cries — not that anyone in the Old World noticed anything out of the ordinary.

It didn’t take long — maybe two minutes at most — before the screams renting the night faded to just Broken Nose’s painful moans. His bloodied and beaten comrades lay around him in various states of consciousness. But he could only watch, eyes widening as the demon incarnate in red leatheris slowly stalked towards him, a thin drizzle of blood trickling down from his temple. Broken Nose tried to get his battered and bruised body to move, hands scrambling against the duracrete. But he didn’t move fast enough, and wasn’t able to escape before a boot came crashing down and shattered all of the tiny bones in his hand.

By the time Theron was done, there was no one left conscious watching as he crouched down against the filthy duracrete, cradling the shattered remains of the holoprojector. He painstakingly gathered every single shard up, and when he got back to the relative safety of his dingy motel room — tried to piece them back together. But no matter what he did, he couldn’t get the projector to flicker back to life. Nor could he stitch together what remained of the fragmented data of the image file that he’d pilfered. 

And just like that, another piece of her was gone.

His head sank down into the scattered fragments of tech, trying to fight back the waves of despair that threatened to pull him down like an undertow. Maybe if Theron had been better at being a spy, had been able to take all of Marcus’s early lessons to heart, he’d have gotten better at keeping all of the spheres of his life separate. Maybe would have been able to stop himself before he’d gone and done something stupid like letting himself get attached.

And then maybe now he wouldn’t have to feel anything.


End file.
